


Shall I Be Raised From Death

by mutationalfalsetto



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: (the latter two only make a brief appearance), Bugs & Insects, Buried Alive, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nobody Likes Westchester, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-25 16:14:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22218847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mutationalfalsetto/pseuds/mutationalfalsetto
Summary: Gil can't unlock his phone, which keeps vibrating, and he hasn't seen Malcolm in a few days.
Comments: 28
Kudos: 91





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> I truly have no idea what I wrote but the title came from Louise Glück's poem "Afterword", I just wanted someone to be buried alive enjoy!!!!!!

New York City was never lacking in crime. Any time between high profile cases consisted of solving smaller crimes, less-exciting mysteries requiring maybe one, two days tops, if they were lucky. They certainly never called for a profiler, no matter how much a certain ex-FBI employee popped up to inquire about their need for his services.

So what was said profiler to do?

Become a complete nuisance.

No matter how often Gil brushed him off, he always managed to show up, nearly vibrating with that barely-contained manic energy that emanated from him even in his most contemplative moments. Especially in his most contemplative moments. Coffee in hand, he stumbled into the precinct, looking like he was two steps from narrowly avoiding a falling piano, some sort of silent movie-era protagonist.

“Anything?” One foot in his office, one foot out like he already knew the answer.

“Bright have you ever heard of the word ‘vacation’? Do you want me to explain it to you?” Perhaps it wasn’t a vacation if it wasn’t self-imposed. Gil still felt like the point bore repeating.

Repeat ad infinitum.

Except when ad infinitum ceased to be… ad infinitum.

Except when the question went from “why are you here, Bright?” to—

“you seen Bright lately?” mumbled Dani around a mouthful of takeout noodles. JT made a face in her direction, at the social faux-pas or the comment or both.

“He’s probably out.”

“Out?”

By JT’s vague hand gestures, he didn’t know what ‘out’ meant, either. “Y’know, doing Bright things. Bright stuff.”

Dani slurped some more of her noodles, the sound loud in the relatively quiet meeting room. “Wanna elaborate on that?”

“You know I don’t.”

Gil redirected them easily, his own container of takeout forgotten to the side as he led them through their latest case. Dani’s question echoed in the back of his head, easily overshadowed by the specifics of the case. It carried on, a low hum in the background of his thoughts, until a free moment allowed him to pick up his phone.

_How’s it going?_

When he thought about it, he hadn’t heard from Bright in a few days. Not that Gil was in constant contact with him, but he would have at least received one questioning text message, if not a personal appearance by now.

The day progressed, the case unfurled itself, the case wrapped itself up as nicely as one might expect, and they resigned themselves to the tedium of paperwork. Gil found himself seated at his desk, files open on his computer and his phone sitting silent.

He pressed the home key, fumbled briefly with the finger login before resigning himself to keying in his password. Again.

_How’s it going?_

No ellipses, no emojis, no _fuck you,_ no nothing.

To his credit, Malcolm was terrible at texting. If the profiler so much as looked at a text, he considered it replied to and done with, no further action required. The number of times Gil had had to text him—to _double text_ , the horror—to make sure Malcolm hadn’t died doing something as innocuous as going for coffee was probably alarming.

If anyone could die on their way to coffee, though, it was Malcolm Bright.

Gil finished his paperwork, back and shoulders aching as he hunched over his keyboard. He stood from his desk and his joints protested, popping loudly in the otherwise quiet precinct. Jesus Christ he wasn’t even that old.

He grabbed his coat, debated whether he needed it on his way to the car or if he could get by without. Another few moments of fumbling, and his phone lit up once more. 33 degrees, feels like 20, and no goddamn word from Malcolm Bright.

Dani’s words echoed in his head as he slid into his coat and hurried out to his car. The first tendrils of concern wound their way up into his stomach, only to settle like clouds of smoke in his chest. Malcolm’s absence weighed heavy on his mind, a persistent drum beat rather than a background drone.

Gil went through his usual nighttime routine, bypassing the pre-mixed salad in his fridge in favor of a microwaveable macaroni and cheese. Jackie would probably disapprove, but in his defense, it was a day ending in –y.

He settled at the table, container of macaroni and cheese burning his fingertips as he set it down gently. In the kitchen, he heard the quiet _rrrrrm rrrrrrm_ of his phone against the countertop. Gil paused, a steaming forkful of pasta halfway to his lips. After a few more moments, the buzzing ceased. Dani’s words surfaced again, a frantic, staccato beat.

Macaroni burning the skin off the roof of his mouth, Gil returned to the kitchen.

His phone was silent, screen blank with the exception of a missed call from, of all people, Malcolm.

Gil’s heart rate tripled and he jammed his thumb against the home screen, waiting impatiently only for the imprint to shudder. Incorrect, incorrect, incorrect. Gil growled low in his throat as he, once again, keyed in his passcode.

_rrrrrrrm rrrrrrrrrrrrm rrrrrrrrrrrrrrm_

The screen lit up, Malcolm’s name flashing across the screen. Gil’s heart was beating hard against his ribcage now and he quickly pressed the green button to accept the call.

“Malcolm?” His concern crept through in spite of his efforts. “Malcolm are you okay?”

Silence greeted him on the other end of the line, faint static overlaid with heavy breathing.

“Malcolm?”

Silence.

“… kid?”

The breathing hitched.

The call dropped.

Gil looked at his phone, screen dark, empty. The dread was back and it rose in his stomach until it choked him; it curled around his lungs and settled in his throat.

_rrrrrrrrrrm_

He nearly dropped his phone as it vibrated in his hand, short and quick. His phone lit up, a pin dropped somewhere in…

Westchester?

Gil waited for more information; something to tell him Malcolm was okay. That the stupid kid wasn’t bleeding out in an alley in White Plains or, god forbid, floating in the Hudson.

The phone screen returned to black.

It took approximately three minutes for Gil to throw his coat back on and run out to his car. Another 45 minutes in his car and one trip across the Whitestone, heart hammering, until he pulled up outside of the Kensico Cemetery.

The trail stopped.

He stepped out of his car.

“Bright?”

Silence.

Gil took a deep, steadying breath. His heart continued to burrow itself further into his throat, nestled itself under the base of his tongue.

One last try.

“Malcolm?”

The graveyard remained quiet, serene in a way that Gil would rather it not be. The car door squeaked loudly as he tugged it open, breaking the silence. _Loud enough to wake the dead_ , he thought, before admonishing himself for even thinking such a thing. At least one person was alive in this graveyard.

He hoped.

Gil hesitantly pressed his foot onto the gas and inched his car through the gates. He double, triple checked his location, but sure enough he was in the right spot. A pained groan lodged itself right under his drumming heart, his concern, his growing dread. How had Malcolm ended up in _Westchester_?

The moon edged out from behind the early winter clouds, a weak glow illuminating the mish-mosh of headstones. He inched up and down the rows, his headlights catching wingtips of angels and curved edges of graves long forgotten, the occasional decaying floral wreath left however many days ago.

No Malcolm to be seen.

He tapped the brakes lightly, slowing to a crawl, half-expecting Malcolm to throw himself out from behind a gravestone, all moonlit angles and half-finished memories. Maybe he had followed an old lead, something he had wriggled loose of his own accord. Maybe it was something new. Something different.

The headlights caught the gleam of the iron gates, the end of the cemetery. Gil slammed his palm into the steering wheel, the harsh honk of his horn breaking the silence of the dead.

_rrrrrrrrm_

His phone vibrated harshly against the cup holder. He could have shelled out the extra cash for a new stereo, USB hookup, CD player, the works, but he didn’t think it was worth it. He could have gotten a holder for his phone, something to clip onto his air vents, he could have—

_rrrrrrrmmmmmm_

Gil’s finger slipped over the home screen button now, keying in the passcode on instinct. Not enough time to wait for his phone to recognize his fingerprint.

“Malcolm?”

Silence, harsh breathing, the occasional hitch and… falling rock?

“Gil?” More falling rock, another breath, like the air choked him, like he couldn’t get enough and like he had had too much at the same time. Something slithered its way into his ribs, coiled up around his heart like a viper and sunk its fangs into his veins, that quick pang of fear.

“Malcolm where are you?”

A quick inhale followed by deep, wracking coughs. The _boom_ of something hitting something solid, a heavy surface. Wood?

“Gil, I can’t—I don’t—“ the breathing was coming faster now, heaving waves of it. “I’m—I’m not the way I should be, I don’t think—“

Gil cut him off. “What do you see? I’m here, what do you see?”

Another _boom_ , a crack, something trickling, piecemeal, like the ice that settled in his veins.

“I don’t—I don’t know.”

Gil turned off his car.

“I’ll find you.”

More trickling, tiny _taptaptap_ on the speaker, more choking, more coughing, a muffled sob lost to an avalanche that Gil couldn’t see.

“Please.”

The _beep_ signaled the end of the call and Gil resisted the urge to throw his phone against the gate. Malcolm was somewhere in the graveyard, it was only a matter of where. Gil’s stomach churned, thinking of the state Malcolm was in, the events leading him to _this spot_ , _here_ , in _Westchester_ , for fuck’s sake.

The clock on the dashboard of his car read _11:30_. The moon lit a dim path back in the direction of the front gate.

Gil turned the key in the ignition and the _11:30_ disappeared.

He stepped out of the car.

The quiet once again weighed heavy on his shoulders and burrowed deep into the marrow of his bones. It wound its way around his throat and squeezed, until every breath felt magnified, too loud, too intrusive, too much.

Every row told a different story; headstones on top of headstones, ages on top of ages, years blending together until whole bloodlines lost their spot in the world, until old money fell back into the dirt and their stories died with the last breath of the person who told them. The weak light of his phone—his flashlight, sitting capable and ready in his _fucking glove compartment_ —illuminated the young and the old equally. Their graves undisturbed, finished, covered over with a thin layer of ice until—

something cracked, sharp and horrible, two rows over.

Nausea bubbled in Gil’s gut, snuck its fingers up his intestines and toyed with the entrance to his throat.

Something rustled, clawed, maybe.

Gil didn’t think twice.

He ran.

It was a small headstone, the dates too close together, too long ago. The grave had been undisturbed for so long except—

Except.

Except the new mound of dirt breaking the clean cover of grass, the neat, almost circular space and Gil felt the nausea again, burning a hole in his stomach, his heart, his lungs. He saw the dirt shift from underneath, and then, almost like something from a horror movie, a hand shoved through the dark surface of the earth.

And he knew that hand.

But still.

Part of him hesitated.

Just for a moment.

The nails were dark with soil, cracked, something dark, liquid seeped around the bed and coursed down the fingers that twitched and shook as they grappled with the cold dirt. Gil’s hands, warm by comparison, wrapped around it and tugged. Faintly, he wondered where the other one was. Whether there _was_ another one, to which an _oh god_ echoed, loud and pained, in his head.

He tugged, feet braced against the cold earth, fingers slipping as dirt became mud under the sudden warmth, until a final tug sent him sprawling back.

And there was Malcolm.

Half of him, anyway.

Malcolm—the top half of him—collapsed forward as his head broke the surface of the earth. His breaths were half-cry, half-gasp, wet and rasping as he took in as much air as he could.

Gil righted himself, approached with caution.

“Malcolm?”

But he was already bracing himself, pushing up with all the strength his shaking arms would allow him, wriggling his body until he was up past his hips, his thighs, his feet, toes left only inches into the grave—and that was what it was, wasn’t it, a grave—and even then he crawled, distancing himself.

Gil’s brain was running two beats behind. Skipping, catching itself, until finally he approached the heaving figure again. He dropped to his knees, hands hovered above Malcolm like he didn’t know what to do. Like the clear answer—the sane answer—wasn’t _call an ambulance_.

Maybe he was saying something, maybe it was just a litany of “ _what the fuck what the actual fuck_ ” but regardless, Malcolm raised his head.

His eyes were sunken, deep, dark smudges of dirt in a drawn, pale face. His mouth was too red, too open, a vacuum for all the air around him. His lips cracked, lined with dirt.

A bug scuttled out of Malcolm’s hairline, making its way toward his mouth.

That sent Gil into a flurry of action, all careful hands and quick inspections.

“Are you okay?”

_Clearly not._

“How did this happen?”

Malcolm’s breathing was quick, shallow, whistling with every inhale like the space was far too small.

“I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t—“

“Malcolm.”

He looked up, eyes searching for Gil in the dim cellphone light. Gil turned off his cell phone, scooting closer to Malcolm. The chill of the earth crept back into his knees. Gil’s hands found their way to Malcolm’s cheeks, the chill worming its way into his palms. Another bug scuttled across his fingers.

“Malcolm, look at me.”

Malcolm’s eyes found his, partial recognition and partial thousand-yard stare. His lips moved, voice rattling from his mouth.

“Gil?”

His body shuddered and his head dropped forward as he vomited onto the dirt. Gil heard the splatter rather than saw it, but when he took his eyes off of Malcom he saw a dark puddle. He resisted the urge to turn on the light to see if there was anything more than bile and the remnants of whatever Malcolm had managed to eat that day.

“How did you end up here?” It meant a number of things. In the ground. In a graveyard. In Westchester. In the _ground_? “Do you need—“

Malcolm’s body convulsed again, a string of something dark sliding past his lips, slug-like but too stringy to be anything other than bile tinged with dirt. Or so Gil hoped.

“No hospital,” he gasped. “Please.”

Gil sat back, surveyed the scene. “This is non-negotiable, kid, I really think—“

“ _Please_ ,” it was partly a plea, partly a sob as Malcolm allowed his head to drop forward completely onto the earth, like his neck was too tired to hold him anymore. “Please, Gil, I can’t—“

“Malcolm.” Gil’s voice was firm, though his resolved wavered.

Malcolm’s only response was to heave again, strings clawing their way out of his mouth. He made a move to scuttle back until the toe of his shoe hit the edge of the hole and he stopped, seemingly frozen.

“They’re gonna find me, they’ll know—“

Gil reached forward, lifting Malcolm’s chin so their eyes met. He kicked himself for giving into the kid’s demands when it was something _this_ serious. “Can you walk?”

Another bug wound its way out of Malcolm’s hair, crawled over the bridge of his nose and disappeared out of sight under his jaw. Malcolm didn’t seem to notice or, if he did, he didn’t say anything. He looked at Gil like something novel, a phenomenon he had not encountered before.

Gil took a deep breath; let the air whistle out through his teeth.

“I’ll bring the car around.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gil lives in Flushing, it seemed like a good choice!
> 
> if you really want, i'm "passavantsridge" on tumblr.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An attempted bath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a damn fool!!!!!!

Getting Malcolm into the car was a feat in and of itself. When Gil finally pulled his car around-- knocking over a particularly unstable cross in the process, sorry god-- he found Malcolm to be in much the same position as he had left him, if not more deflated. He saw the way Malcolm's back shifted slightly, breathing or sobbing or retching or both. Dirt clung to the fibers of his suit, dribbled off his shoulders like hailstones.

Gil purposefully made his approaching footsteps as loud as possible in the hopes that he wouldn't send Malcom into a panic. It was marginally successful; he heard the tight whistle of his breathing but Malcolm didn't make any motion to get up or move away.

"Malcolm, you need to get up." Gil crouched beside him, gave his shoulder a light shake.

Malcolm groaned, raising his head off the ground to look at Gil again. In the dark, Gil couldn't see the extent of Malcolm's injuries, not that he saw much in the light of his cell phone, but now Malcolm could be bleeding internally for all he knew and he wouldn't see it, wouldn't have any way to know, until it was too late.

Another shake. "We need to move. You need to get in the car."

Malcolm stared for a few more seconds, eyes wide and roaming, before he allowed himself to be repositioned.

"No hospitals."

Not for the first time that evening, Gil kicked himself. "Sure, kid, whatever you want." His hands found their way under Malcolm's arms, one light tug to get the point across. Malcolm moved in marionette jerks until he got his feet under him, though from the way he leaned on Gil he had a feeling Malcolm was carrying very little of his own weight.

They moved in slow, careful steps toward the passenger side of the car. Malcolm's breaths squeaked with every inhale, his chest seeming to expand piece by piece rather than in one fluid movement. Once or twice they had to stop for him to empty the contents of his stomach, dark clumps of dirt that Gil tried to ignore for the time being.

He threw open the door, the squeak echoing across the cemetery and alerting anyone within the vicinity of their departure, if the previous spectacle hadn't been enough to do so. Gil manhandled Malcolm into the seat, left his legs dangling out the side of the car until Malcolm pulled them in. He fumbled with the seatbelt, tugged it until it reached the end of its pull only to struggle to fit it into the lock. Gil watched him for a few moments, pained at the sight of Malcolm trying to buckle himself in given their current situation. God knows he never bothered with his seatbelt the other thousand times he had been in Gil's car.

"Let me help." He pushed Malcolm's shaking hands out of the way, easily guided the clip into the lock.

Malcolm's head fell back against the headrest and he breathed, slow and labored, hitching. Gil used the time to slide around to the driver's side and soon enough his key was back in the ignition, engine roaring to life with a small flick of his wrist.

"Are you gonna tell me what happened?" Gil's eyes flicked briefly from the dirt trail ahead of him to look in his rear view mirror. Hypothetically, they were alone in the cemetery. Hypothetically, he thought, peeling out of the open gates, nobody knows where we're going. 

Malcolm's previous words crawled through his mind, a ticker tape over his racing thoughts.

_ They're gonna find me, they'll know _

The clock read _1:12_.

Malcolm didn't move his head so much as he allowed it to roll in Gil's direction. Every so often the lights on the on-ramp to the Sprain Brook Parkway threw his face out of the shadows, a mess of dirt covering up whatever bruised lay underneath. His eyes were ringed, dark, and as Gil took his eyes off the road once again he noticed something around Malcolm's neck, a thin, steady slice. Malcolm's chest hitched, a sudden jolt, and then he was coughing over Gil's cup holders.

Gil's eyes snapped back to the road, foot pressed slightly harder on the gas. The question died on his lips again, along with a thousand others. How long had he been there? What had--

"Oh god--"

He looked down at that, the words weak, muffled, and full of something Gil couldn't quite place. Revulsion? Horror?

Malcolm's hands were clasped over his mouth, shaking fingers pushing indentations into his skin. Even in the low light of the passing lamps, Gil could see Malcolm's skin take on a different sort of pallor under the grime. Without another thought, he pulled over to the narrow shoulder just as Malcolm's trembling hands found the doorknob and tugged the door open, flopping out and retching. Had it not been for the seatbelt, Gil wasn't entirely sure Malcolm would have remained upright.

Gil allowed Malcolm to empty his stomach in piece, though he found himself wincing at the sounds. When the noises ceased, Gil moved to put a hand on Malcolm's shoulder, the suit gritty under his fingers.

"I'm fine," Malcolm gasped, spitting onto the ground. A group of cars sped by them, headlights sweeping through the car. The back of Malcolm's neck was shiny with sweat, droplets making tracks in the dirt, over the fine line of the cut. Malcolm's shoulders heaved again against the seatbelt. "I'm fine."

Gil's skepticism was an entity unto itself. "Are you as familiar with the word 'fine' as you are with 'vacation'?"

Malcolm spit again, reached one dirt-stained hand up to wipe his mouth. When he righted himself again, he drew the door shut and leaned his head against the window. Gil was tempted to turn on the overhead light, to really get a good look at the profiler in his front seat.

The silence, much like Gil's skepticism, was an unwelcome guest in the car. Malcolm did not turn his head back to Gil, though his breathing had evened out somewhat. With Gil's luck he was out; asleep or passed out, hard to tell.

"Kid?"

No response.

Gil took the car out of park, maneuvering it back onto the highway. If his foot hit the gas a little harder than it should have, he didn't make any move to change it.

The drive back to Flushing was relatively uneventful after that point. Malcolm's head lolled against the passenger window, forehead leaving streaks of dirt in its wake. He woke briefly to look around, as if startled, though Gil locked the door after one heart stopping moment before the Whitestone. Malcolm shivered in fits and bursts, from cold, adrenaline, or fear, prompting Gil to raise the heat as high as his old car would allow.

The clock read  _2:05_ as Gil turned off the ignition. Malcolm didn't stir from his spot against the window, breath fogging the glass in small puffs. Gil hated to wake him up, but to say he had a few questions was an understatement.

"Malcolm," he hissed, shaking Malcolm's shoulder lightly. "Hey, Malcolm, we're here".

Malcolm stirred only long enough to curl closer to the window, arms wrapped around his stomach. Gil tried again, a rougher shake this time. "C'mon kid, we gotta go inside."

It harkened back to a different time, a very different shape curled around himself against the door. Smaller, cleaner, certainly. The only time he seemed to sleep, to really sleep, was on the way back from those stakeouts. Maybe not Gil's smartest decision, but certainly one he didn't regret.

Malcolm stirred again, this time pulling away from the window and letting his head slide in Gil's direction. His eyes opened blearily, smudges in the dark. Gil took the moment to hurry over to the passenger side. A centipede scampered over the back of his hand as he clicked open Malcolm's seatbelt. He tried not to think about the other friends waiting in his car after the drive.

Getting Malcolm into the house, much like getting him into the car, was no small feat. They labored up the stairs, pausing frequently as Malcolm tried to find his footing. His breathing came in quick gasps, soft words hidden in the air but even as Gil tried to listen, they were lost under the sounds of the neighborhood.

Gil all but shoved the key in the lock. He let Malcolm lean against the metal banister, let the porch light wash over him though he wished afterward that he hadn't. He looked worse than he had in the cemetery, like something barely reanimated. A closer call than he would like to think possible. As he watched, Malcolm's eyes opened again, head once again rolling on his neck like it didn't quite work, like gravity and the earth's rotation were two steps behind. He didn't like what he saw in those eyes, like looking at the stones they just left behind.

"You okay?" He jiggled the lock and set one foot inside to hold the door open as he offered his arm.

"I'm fffffine. Cold." Though his breathing was still too fast, his tone was hollow.

"I'll bet. C'mon, let's see about getting you warmed up."

They moved slowly through the living room, past the table with the congealed microwave dinner, untouched except the one bite. Gil debated whether Malcolm could make it up to the upstairs bathroom, when the body under his hands stiffened suddenly.

"Everything okay?" Gil tried to keep his tone neutral.

Malcolm's "yeah" came out strained, but he took a hesitant shuffle forward.

They made it to the bathroom without further incident. Malcolm's skin was pale, tinged green under the layer of dirt. There were pale tracks where sweat had washed the grime away, though Gil notes that every few minutes Malcolm shivered, a violent twitch.

Gil reached over and closed the lid on the toilet before he helped Malcolm sit down. "Hold on a sec, I'm gonna get some towels."

His words were not entirely accurate, as his hand remained on Malcolm's shoulder until he was certain Malcolm wasn't going to face-plant onto the turquoise bathroom tile (unfortunate).

Malcolm gave a single, jerky nod. His head flopped forward, hung there like a single apple hanging off a tree branch: unsteady and five seconds away from something disastrous. Gil best a hasty retreat from the bathroom to locate some towels. Better to use something clean.

When he returned, towels sling over one arm like some sort of butler, it was to find Malcolm slumped over the sink. His head was bent at an odd angle, looking as though someone had snapped his neck. The thin cut stood out in the harsh bathroom light, now broken open once again, weeping small amounts of blood.

Except Malcolm's neck wasn't broken. He was breathing, drinking noisily from the sink as though he hadn't had water in years.

"I could get a cup, it'd be easier." Malcolm ignored him, perhaps not hearing him over the running water and his own gulping breaths. After a few more moments he reached up a shaking hand to turn off the faucet before feeling behind him for the toilet seat once again.

"It's fffffffine," he breathed, eyes closed, head tilting back. That unnatural angle again, that clean slice breaking open from the front. His words hissed through his teeth, air escaping through punctured tires.

Gil eyed him dubiously. Again. Fine was a word that Malcolm was not at all intimately familiar with, and it showed. His thoughts flashed back to the graveyard, that hand shooting through the earth like something out of a horror film. There would be time to ask, time to get answers, to open an investigation if necessary. For now, though--

"We gotta get you cleaned up."

Malcolm allowed his head to roll in Gil's direction. His eyes opened, bleary, bloodshot. "Hhhhere I thought I was wearing my Sssssunday best."

"If that's your Sunday best, we need to have a talk with your mother." Gil's tone was in direct opposition to his words. 

Malcolm's lips split into a tired grin, dry skin cracking open. Gil tried to ignore the shifting in his hair, the little legs he imagined were tangled in the strands. "Sssshhhhhhe's-- she's not gonna he happy about that." His voice crackled; dry leaves, dry earth. A single shudder ran through him.

"So let's give her something to be happy about," Gil offered, holding the towels out.

With a trembling hand, Malcolm accepted the towels. He held them to his chest, for a moment appearing confused at how they got there. Gil inwardly winced as the dirt from his suit transferred onto the clean fibers. Not that it mattered, he had a few more to spare.

It happened in a handful of seconds, the comment about 'sponge baths aren't my area of expertise' dying on Gil's tongue as Malcolm's eyes widened and he toppled forward. If Gil hadn't seen the way his hand shot out to catch himself, hadn't seen the way his fingers grappled to lift the toilet seat, he might have thought Malcolm lost his balance.

"I d-don't underssssssstand," Malcolm gagged, head hanging forward, hair obscuring his face. He spit once, which set off another round of heaving. "Th-ththhhhere's nothing left I don't have--"

Gil hesitantly placed his hand on Malcolm's shoulder, unsure of how much contact would be too much. Malcolm's shoulders tensed at the touch but relaxed gradually, only to tense again as he gagged on whatever was running through his system.

When the nausea passed, Gil helped Malcolm off the floor. Getting him into the tub was an entirely different level of difficulty; Malcolm's legs shook as he attempted to shift his weight to climb over the edge of the bath.

"You're sure you don't want to take the suit off?"

Malcolm shook his head, chest heaving as he attempted to catch his breath. "S'just-- s'jusssss' dirt, anywwwways."

Somehow, Gil was not comforted. Nevertheless, the thought of trying to help Malcolm our of his suit or, horror of horrors, Malcolm trying to get himself out of the suit, seemed an impossible task. He resigned himself to turning on the faucet.

Malcolm shivered as the warm water hit his feet. For the first time, Gil registered that Malcolm was shoeless, and furthermore he did not know if he wanted to explore that topic or leave it for another time. As the warm water soaked into the legs of Malcolm's pants and crept further up the tub, the shivering subsided.

"I should turn on the shower."

Malcolm looked up at Gil curiously. Gil tried to think of a nice way to explain that if Malcolm let himself slide under the water, Gil wasn't totally certain he would resurface.

"m'good." A small spider scuttled across Malcolm's neck. He flicked it away. "Wouldn't want to displace my new friends, y'know?" He laughed, just a bit hysterical.

"You're not really convincing me," Gil replied, trying not to think about the new ecosystem in Malcolm's hair. How long he had to be underground for these 'new friends' to settle in. 

He lobbed the next question gently, an underhand pitch. "What happened?"

Malcolm flicked a tiny leaf as it floated by his hand. The water was becoming dark, murky as the soil lifted off his suit. Gil passed him a bar of soap. "You're not gonna like it."

Gil sat down on the toilet seat. "Well I wasn't exactly expecting it to be a piece of comedy gold."

The water was the only sound in the bathroom. Gil watched Malcolm closely, as he scrubbed at his hands, wincing as the soap irritated his already cracked nails. He watched the bubbles forming, entranced.

"Well?"

Another centipede wound its way out of Malcolm's hair. Malcolm stiffened, waited until he could watch as it crawled down his arm, coming close to the water's edge and turning back. He carefully plucked it off his sleeve and dropped it into the murky water. It struggled for a few moments, it's many legs flailing before it stopped. Malcolm made a noise in the back of his throat, like choking on air he didn't have.

"Malcolm?"

"You're really not going to like it," Malcolm warned. He placed the soap on the edge of the tub, looked up at Gil like an apology.

And then he slid under the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess this is going to be three chapters. Is what I tell myself? Trying to stick to maybe once a week but I have a ton of writing for work and that always kills me. If you want, find me on tumblr at [passavantsridge](https://passavantsridge.tumblr.com/)


End file.
